Claim Me (18 page)

Y
ulia

O
ver the next
couple of weeks, Lucas and I go back to something resembling our old routine. With my strength rapidly returning, I take over the cooking and other domestic chores, and Lucas resumes his normal working schedule, returning home only in the evenings and for mealtimes. While he’s gone, I read books and do body-weight exercises to stay fit, and when we’re together, we discuss the books I’ve read. We also go on morning walks together. The main difference between now and before is the presence of my brother on the estate and that, technically, I’m allowed to walk around on my own.

I say “technically,” because the first time I’m about to take advantage of that opportunity, Lucas cautions me to avoid Esguerra as much as possible.

“He won’t do anything to you, but it’s best if you don’t draw his attention unnecessarily,” Lucas says, and I read between the lines.

If it weren’t for Lucas, Esguerra would gladly do as his wife threatened and flay every bit of flesh from my bones.

Given this, I rethink my idea of strolling over to the guards’ barracks to chat with my brother. Instead, I request that Diego bring him over to Lucas’s house. I’m not afraid for myself—I’ve been living on borrowed time since my capture in Moscow—but I can’t bear the thought of anything happening to Misha. That possibility worries me so much that when Diego comes over, I surreptitiously pull the young guard aside and ask him to keep my brother away from his boss.

“From Esguerra?” Diego gives me a surprised look. “Why? He’s doesn’t care about Michael. He’s seen the kid half a dozen times since your arrival, and he’s never shown any interest in him.”

That reassures me somewhat. On the training field, Esguerra looked at me with unmistakable hatred. If he feels differently about my brother—or, rather, is indifferent toward him—it’s a good thing. Still, the core of my fear remains. Even if the arms dealer’s animosity is reserved solely for me, I know what he’s capable of. If Esguerra decides to hurt me, it won’t matter to him that Misha is fourteen, or that he had nothing to do with the crash.

My brother could end up paying for my sins.

“Are you sure Misha is safer here than in Ukraine?” I press Lucas that evening. “Maybe if his parents moved to a different part of the country, or—”

“Ukraine is a battle zone right now,” Lucas says bluntly. “We’ve got three dozen men on the ground there now, and more are getting sent in as we speak. I can’t guarantee your brother won’t get caught in the crossfire. Do you want to take that risk?”

“No, of course not.” I chew the inside of my cheek, trying to block out mental images of the massacre that must be taking place. “But what about Misha’s adoptive parents? They’re probably worried sick about him—not to mention terrified, if they have any clue about what’s going on.”

“The best I can do is send them word that Misha’s alive and well,” Lucas says. “That, and remind our men that they’re off-limits. But like I said, I can’t make any guarantees. The situation is volatile, and since I’m not there to oversee the operation in person, the men have been given a lot of autonomy to carry out the mission as they see fit.”

I swallow. “I understand… and thank you. Anything you can do to keep Misha’s parents safe would be greatly appreciated,” I say, and mean it. I may not be able to prevent Lucas and Esguerra from getting their vengeance, but if I can keep my brother’s family out of harm’s way, then I won’t feel quite so conflicted about it—helpless and complicit all at once.

I’m not only sleeping with a monster; I’m in love with him.

And the monster knows it. He revels in it, making me admit my feelings almost every day. I don’t know why Lucas gets such a kick out of it—I can’t be the first woman to have fallen for him—but he definitely enjoys hearing the words from me. He forces me to scream them as he fucks me roughly, and to whisper them as he cradles me gently in his embrace. The constant juxtaposition of violent possessiveness and tender care confuses me, keeping me off-balance. I have no idea where my captor stands. One minute, I’m certain he views me as his sex toy, and the next, I find myself hoping it’s something more.

I find myself dreaming that someday he may love me too.

It doesn’t help that Lucas keeps doing things that make me feel like we’re in a real relationship. Every time he learns about a food or drink I like, he surprises me by getting it for me. Over the past week, we’ve received deliveries of hard-to-find Russian candy, a box of ripe persimmons from Israel, five exotic varieties of Earl Grey tea, and freshly baked loaves of German rye bread. He’s also ordered me a wider variety of clothes—some of which he allowed me to choose for myself online—and all kinds of toiletries and bath products, including my favorite peach-scented shampoo.

I’m so pampered it scares me.

And it’s not just about the things Lucas buys for me. It’s everything he does. If I so much as get a scratch, he bandages it for me. If my muscles ache after a workout, he gives me a full body rub. We’ve started watching TV together in the evenings, and he’s gotten into the habit of stroking my hair or playing with my hand as I sit curled up next to him. It’s an absentminded sort of affection, like petting a cat, but that doesn’t lessen its impact on me. It’s what I’ve been starving for, what I’ve wanted for so long. Every time my captor kisses me goodnight, every time he holds me close, the dry, empty fissures around my heart heal a bit, the pain of my losses fading.

With Lucas, the terrifying loneliness of the past eleven years seems like a distant memory.

What touches me most, however, is that Lucas understands my devotion to my brother and doesn’t try to interfere with the rebuilding of our relationship. Despite Misha’s continued antagonism toward him, he lets me invite my brother over as often as I want, and the three of us start having meals together—meals that often brim with awkward tension.

“Your brother doesn’t like me much, does he?” Lucas says drily after our first joint lunch. “For a few moments there, I thought he was going to pull a Yulia and try to stab me with a fork.”

“I’m sorry,” I apologize, worried that he’d want Misha to stay away. “I’ll talk to him. It’s just that with his uncle and what happened in Ukraine—”

“It’s okay, baby. I understand.” Lucas’s gaze softens unexpectedly. “He’s still a kid, and he’s been through a lot. He has every reason to hate me. I’m not going to hold it against him.”

I blink. “You’re not?”

“No. He’ll come around. And if he doesn’t… Well, he’s your brother, so I’ll deal.”

My throat swells with emotion. “Thank you,” I manage to say. “Really, Lucas, thank you for that and… and everything.”

It’s not lost on me that by hunting me down in Ukraine, Lucas most likely saved my life—and he certainly saved my sanity. I don’t know if I could’ve survived a second assault from Kirill, so in a way, my recapture had also been my rescue.

“Of course,” Lucas says, stepping toward me. The warmth in his gaze transforms into a familiar dark heat. “It’s my pleasure, believe me.”

And as he sweeps me up in his arms, I forget all about my worries—for the time being, at least.

“
A
re
you in love with him?” Misha asks after we’ve been on the estate for almost six weeks. “Is he your boyfriend for real?”

“What?” I glance at my brother in surprise. We’re walking in the forest to minimize the chances of running into Esguerra, and up until this moment, we were discussing utterly innocuous subjects: Misha’s old school, his best friend Andrey, and the types of movies boys his age are into. This came out of nowhere. “Why do you ask?” I say cautiously.

Misha shrugs. “I don’t know. In the beginning, I thought maybe you were playing him so it would be easier for us to get away, but the more I see you two together, the less that seems to be the case.” He shoots me an indecipherable look. “Do you even want to leave?”

“Michael, I…” I take a breath, knowing I need to tread carefully. Our relationship has been going so well. Last week, I finally convinced Lucas to let me get online, and I showed Misha the pictures I’d uploaded to the cloud. He viewed them silently, with no accusations of lies or manipulations, and I thought we were finally making progress. The last thing I want is to push us back to our adversarial beginnings.

“Listen, Michael,” I say finally, “I’m working on getting you back to your family. I told you, your parents were notified that you’re okay, and as soon as things in Ukraine settle down a bit—”

“That’s not what I’m asking.” Misha stops and turns to face me. “Do you want to leave? If you had a chance to get away from him, would you take it?”

I stop too, struck by the question. In the last month, I haven’t thought about escape at all. Even if I didn’t have the trackers embedded under my skin, the fact that Lucas found me in Ukraine showed me there’s nowhere I can run. Even if I somehow managed to escape again, Lucas would just come after me and bring me back.

That’s not what Misha wants to know, though.

“No,” I say quietly, holding my brother’s gaze. “I wouldn’t leave if I could.”

He nods. “That’s what I thought.”

He resumes walking, and I hurry to catch up with his long strides. Misha seems to have grown another inch or two since we’ve been here, his shoulders broadening and filling out. I suspect when he’s fully grown, he’ll have Lucas’s height and build. For now, though, he’s still a boy—and I’m still his big sister.

“Michael, listen to me.” I fall into step beside him. “Just because I don’t want to leave doesn’t mean I’m not working to make it happen for you. Please believe me. I’m doing everything I can to get you home.”

“I know.” He glances at me, his brow furrowed with a frown. “I just wish you’d come with me when I leave. A lot of people here hate you, you know.”

“I know.” I smile to chase away the stressed look on his face. “But don’t worry about me. I’m going to be fine.”

“Because you have
him
.”

“Lucas? Yes.” I’ve noticed that my brother doesn’t like to refer to Lucas by his name, preferring to just say “he.” “He’ll keep me safe.”

Misha is still frowning, so on impulse, I reach over and ruffle his hair playfully. “You know, this mop on your head is getting long. Want me to give you a haircut, or are you trying to grow a ponytail?”

“Eeww, no.” Misha grimaces and reaches up with his hand. His fingers disappear in the thick blond strands. “Yeah, I guess I do need to cut it,” he says grudgingly. “Are you good at giving haircuts?”

“I’m sure I’ll manage.” I grin at his dubious expression. “If I screw it up, we’ll just ask Lucas to fix it—he gives himself a buzz cut every other week.”

At the mention of Lucas, Misha tenses again, and his gaze slides away. “That’s okay,” he mutters, suddenly fascinated by an ant hill to our left. “I’m sure whatever you do will be fine.”

I sigh but let it go. I can’t force my brother to like Lucas. The brutal attack on the black site and Obenko’s death left an indelible impression on his young psyche. Misha regards Lucas as the enemy, and rightly so.

If Lucas hadn’t realized who Misha was, my brother would’ve been one of the casualties of that attack.

We walk without talking for a few minutes, but as we approach the edge of the forest, I touch Misha’s arm, bringing him to a halt. “I’m sorry about what happened that day,” I say when he turns to face me. “Truly, I am. If I could go back and change things, I would. The last thing I wanted was to endanger you or the others, believe me.”

Misha stares at me, then says slowly, “It wasn’t your fault… not really. I’m sorry I said that before. Besides, if they hadn’t come—” He stops, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

“What?”

“You probably would’ve been killed.” His words are barely audible. Turning away, he continues walking, and I hurry after him, my stomach knotted tight.

“Who told you that, Michael?” Catching up with him, I grab his arm, bringing him to a stop again. “Why did you say that?”

“Because it’s true.” Misha’s face is shadowed, his forearm tense in my grip. “I overheard Uncle Vasya talking about it with Kirill Ivanovich. I didn’t want to believe it at first—I thought maybe I misunderstood, or took their words out of context—but the more I thought about it, the clearer it became. They were going to kill you and tell me you ran off with your lover.” He draws in an unsteady breath. “They were going to lie, like they’ve lied about you all along.”

“Oh, Michael…” I release his arm, my heart clenching at the pain in his eyes. I can’t even fathom how agonizing this betrayal must be for him. Obenko had been my boss and mentor, but for my brother, he had been so much more. Misha must’ve fought so hard against this knowledge, seeking to deny the truth for as long as he could. “Maybe you did misunderstand,” I say, unable to bear his distress. “Maybe it was—”

“No, don’t. You’ve been saying this all along, and I was too stupid to believe you. And then when you showed me those pictures last week…” Shaking his head, Misha takes a step back. “I should’ve listened to you from the start. I just didn’t want to believe what you were saying, you know?” His face contorts. “He was dead and—”

“And he was your uncle, a man you looked up to, and I was the sister who left you when you were three.” I keep my voice soft and even. “You had no reason to believe me over him. I understand… and I understood then too.” I inhale to ease the constriction in my throat. “And I’m sorry, Michael. I’m really, truly sorry that things worked out this way.”

Misha’s expression doesn’t change. “You have nothing to be sorry for,” he says, his voice strained. “Uncle Vasya—Obenko—is a liar, and I’m an idiot for believing him. Kent said—” He stops again, his face reddening for some reason.

“Lucas?” I stare at Misha blankly. “You talked to him?”

“Yesterday,” Misha mumbles, and begins walking again. “When he took me back to the barracks after dinner.”

“What did he say?” I ask, falling into step beside him. Misha doesn’t respond, so I say more firmly, “What did he say, Michael?”

“He said Kirill Ivanovich hurt you when you were my age,” he says reluctantly. “And that Obenko told you they took care of him and they didn’t.” He glances at me, his face now pale. “Is it true? Did he”—he stops, blocking my way—“do something to you?”